


Who knew big fearless alphas are that helpless?

by Saysly



Series: Dialogues are overrated [11]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alpha Jack, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Feels, HYDRA Husbands, M/M, Military Background, References to Knotting, Scarves, Strike Team, Timeline What Timeline, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, omega Brock, swamps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:54:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22435963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saysly/pseuds/Saysly
Summary: Brock and alphas who need Brock.
Relationships: Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Series: Dialogues are overrated [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1006959
Kudos: 16





	Who knew big fearless alphas are that helpless?

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Кто знал, что большие бесстрашные альфы такие беспомощные?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15288216) by [Saysly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saysly/pseuds/Saysly). 



> I'm generally shocked that there is this tag, but in fact I'm glad, because the time line is as overrated as dialogues ~_~

Brock looks at Jack in confusion. He has no idea what alphas do to find a partner for the rut; he and Jack never had anyone except each other since the day when they met at the base when Brock was a green recruit, barely celebrated his twenty-second birthday.

Yeah, their dad hired an alpha through some agency for his older sister, but Brock doesn't know if the system works the other way around. It's possible that there's even an app like the kind of thing Westfahl prays for, finding naive partners who don't know who's hiding on the other side of the phone. But they surely shouldn’t send Rogers to Westfahl — he is already red as a lobster, hiding his eyes and breathing unevenly. Brock only now realized how shockingly young Captain is. He's barely older than Brock was when he got into that mess…

Brock can't recall. Something very important happened that year. Seems... It seems at twenty-six he brought Jack to meet his Nonna. Because... they couldn’t come earlier though they were bonded for some years. Yes. Right. Brock’s almost forty but he feels very uncomfortable in the presence of a young but dangerous alpha, though, sincere confusion made him more human, more accessible. A huge man apologized for five minutes, stuttering, admitting that he needed help in a very delicate matter.

Brock has nothing against him, it's just some weird instinctive fear he's able to hide. They discuss options, and Brock has desire on the tip of his tongue to offer Rogers suppressants since it’s so hard for alpha to find a partner. (Brock recommended him to go to the nearest bar and take off his t-shirt there. Rogers became so intensely red that it looked as if he’ll burst from embarrassment right in their living room.)

It's not even that there are no suppressants of suitable strengh for a super soldier. There are. They need something to control the Winter Soldier. The problem is how to give Captain America information why do they have super suppressants…

Steve rumples the hem of his shirt with his hands and he looks so confused that Brock itches to pet his head. He and Winter would make a perfect pair in terms of bringing out his maternal instincts. He hides his hands under his thighs to stop himself from reaching blond tufts to brush disheveled hair.

Luckily Jack interrupts Brock's chaotic stream of thoughts, wisely suggesting Rogers to address in medical department where there are rooms of family stay and the service of the help to lonely soldiers who for some reasons cannot use suppressants is organized for certain. Brock sighs with relief at the same time with Rogers, they exchange glances and laugh a little in embarrassment. He looks like he wants to ask about something else, but still does not dare.

He leaves and Jack immediately pulls out his phone. To report on a situation, Brock understands. Captain America will be provided with an omega most suitable for the Hydra. Brock sighs once again catching himself thinking that alpha’s carefully hidden helplessness in vital matters leads them to completely unspeakable circumstances. It's a pity that Winter is not omega, they would have turn the situation so nicely…

*

Swamp squelches under their feet, squelches so ghoulish, nearly like it munches every time Brock raises his leg and takes a step forward. It seems like this fucking swamp is living creature that literally licks its lips when he puts his right foot before the left, feeling his sole goes deep into a thick goo. He would not consider himself to be particularly tasty food nor even conditionally edible, but who knows these living swamps: maybe they just like omegas smeared with mud, sweat and blood, staggering under the weight of the unconscious alpha? Or betas, if we talk about the whole squad.

Of course, no one forced too heavy Anderson’s body on Mercier; Wesfahl has him in fireman's carry grumbling non stop. Mercier got three of their rifles and Winter’s flesh shoulder, while Converse buckles under the weight of the metal one. Brock thinks the team needs more betas. On the one hand, the usual group of two alphas, two omegas and two betas is more than once showed itself perfectly on missions. Especially when they were sent to support Winter Soldier. On the other hand, they need more betas, and that's final.

Brock spits the salty saliva with a copper taste that has accumulated in his mouth, fixes Jack's heavy unconscious body and warily checks his pulse. The pulse is still there. Brock squints to get rid of the black dots dancing in his eyes, shakes his head and keeps moving. Keeps crawling, to be honest. Yeah sure Brock is a strong man, trained, in full bloom, thirty years, but Jack should lose weight. Definitely. Because the omega’s nature does not allow Brock to reach such a built that let him carry his alpha around without effort. Through the swamp. After a two-hour swim in the sewer. After the frantic run through the enemy base with shootings and fights. After secret infiltrating this base through an abandoned missile silo. (They were told the silo was abandoned. Looks like they didn't even lie). To sum up the day was very busy.

Brock shakes his head. They need to take a break and eat before they collapse, but the damned swamp is not ending and it is too dangerous to stop. It is unlikely that they will be followed; Brock already feels he is akin to the mush by color and smell, and soon all of them will stuck in the swamp and remain here forever. But to be honest, swamp sucks at being family. So Brock lifts his left foot with a wet slurping sound and puts it down in front of his right with a vulgar squish.

It would be easier to carry their unconscious alphas passed out because of some incomprehensible gas if the team had more betas. Strike squads are usually formed of alphas. Mostly. Sometimes they are joined by their bonded omegas and, in the case of exceptional skills, some betas. (Westfahl’s exceptional skill according to his file is specified as a doctorate in radio engineering and microelectronics instead of extreme idiocy.) Jack’s team is a hodgepodge and that saved them today. It's unlikely for a pair of omegas or betas to be able to get out all the alphas collapsed on their way out.

Brock knows he would abandon Winter and their mission if they hadn't complete it before the terrible moment when the corridor started filling by blue-gray clubs of the gas from the ceiling and Jack despite his helmet with filters staggered and then fell to his knees as in slow motion. He would have fallen face down into the concrete floor if Brock had not caught him. He sprawled immediately under a heavy body.

If there was no one there but Brock and the bunch of alphas, he would have dug his teeth into Jack's shoulder and pulled him out alone. Through the ceiling, under the floor, leaving the others and not regretting it once. But they were lucky they were able to divide alphas among themselves. Winter lasted a minute longer than Jack and Anderson, he punched a way through the wall into the collector while Mercier shot back their pursuers, and Converse with Westfahl helped Brock to drag alphas through the hole.

Brock felt his ears had been jammed even before they blew up a section of the tunnel behind them. They were running through it to brake free from the underground base of some European company that conducted research on pheromones. Apparently, they were successful in their research. There was no need to get the tablets and study the stolen data. It was enough to look at Jack’s white face who was hanging on Brock’s shoulders. Brock couldn't check his pulse, couldn't bring himself to press his ear to alpha's chest, he was too afraid to hear nothing. His own heart was pounding in his ears. Brock had only ever experienced such fear heavily involved in his own helplessness while he was imprisoned in the desert. That times he was afraid of alphas. Now he feared for alphas. For one particular alpha; in fact he very much hoped that the information they extracted will have a way to undo gas’ effect and to rescue all of them.

Brock staggers, left foot in front of right, right foot in front of left. The swamp in the darkness looks like a sprawling fat creature which contently eats them slurping while they don’t see it. Mercier’s flashlight on the rifle sometimes snatches Winter’s metal hand. He did not come to consciousness, but when they pulled him out of the water, the plates on his arm rose several times and shacked off the dirt and water. Dull metal is the only thing that looks alien not yet chewed by swamp. Brock clings to these spots of light, checks the pulse in Jack's wrist periodically and keeps moving to the sound of Westfahl's mumble. Squish. Squish. Squish. Left foot in front of right. Right in front of left.

*

Brock hates scarves. He doesn't know why. If Jack had dragged him to the therapist by the scruff, and he would have tried to pull out of Brock some ancient childhood trauma, then he would have failed. Because Brock the kid didn't fall victim to a desperately prickly, idiotically pink monster with pom-poms or tassels like his niece’s. He does not know why Bree uses a pink disaster while living in Florida except that it is a part of the Rumlow family’s heritage (they do love pink wool) but this is not a reason to torture the children. Or Brock.

Any mission in Canada means Brock packs a pair of high-necked turtlenecks and that's enough. He's not a five-year-old to wrap himself in scarves. Even presented by Jack. Even black. Even without pom-poms. Every time Brock is torn by the desire to please his alpha by taking another gift and to defend his unwillingness to cover his face and neck with a piece of cloth. Which is not even woolen.

He's not a kid. The scarf can catch on the wheels of the car. He saw it on TV. Or in the Internet. Someone died like that. You can also strangle someone with a scarf. To death. Brock knows a dozen ways to kill with a scarf. Of course he doesn't list them to alpha who doesn't give up trying to wrap him up. Brock doesn't know why it's so important for Jack to keep him warm. He is not cold. He has hot Italian blood in his veins. Well with some admixture but no one can prove anything.

Scarves are like that piece of cloth which he uses to strangle himself with in the rare nightmares that come sometimes after a difficult mission. For some reason only after those where were no cold at all. Brock doesn't know why. He shrugs off these dreams. He doesn’t voice any of them to Jack. Alpha stoically endures his reluctance to dress appropriately for the weather, but Brock can swore Jack’s hands are trembling in his pockets when he's looking at Brock’s naked throat with some strange helplessness. The throat covered by the turtleneck, by the way, not completely naked.

Plus Brock looks very favourably in turtlenecks. They stretch over his torso, emphasize muscles, outline pert nipples; after the job’s done and he can remove the armor vest waiting and rest while waiting for the evac, doing nothing, just leaning back on his arms with his chest puff out for Jack to lick it with hungry eyes, already lost their green, dark with desire consuming him. Brock loves when Jack looks at him as if he's already stripped off his turtleneck, tactical pants, and thick, warm underwear, and Brock is sprawled out in front of him, legs bent at the knees, open invitingly in anticipation of a thick cock and a heavy knot.

Brock suspects he’s projecting his own lust onto the alpha half the time. It can’t be helped: Jack is too hot to keep Brock from wanting things. Jack's shoulders, Jack's arms, broad chest, strong hips, infinitely long legs, strong back, Brock can endlessly iterate and list everything that he loves about Jack. His cock, thick and long, eyes green like poison, firm ass, soft beard, lips delicious to the point of stupefaction and skillful greedy tongue. Brock seems to be in a state of two-hours-before-heat all the time, when the need to be under his alpha is not making him loose it yet, but said alpha already occupies all his thoughts.

Especially when he looks at Brock with a hidden smile that can only be seen in the corner of his quivering lips and in his narrowed eyes — as if he's planning something that Brock won't like, but will accept and love nonetheless. Jack is a master at finding such things. Brock doesn't know how he does it, and can never prepare in advance.

They're waiting while plane’s being loaded, and there's no one shooting at them, and they're just breathing the frosty air, and Jack radiates heat, and Brock might be leaning into him a little, trying to slip into the alpha's warmth unnoticed, when Jack suddenly turns Brock around with one hand and pulls one more scarf out of his pocket with the other. Brock sighs. The scarf is green like Jack's eyes and that's a low blow. It’s long, so long that Jack wraps it twice around his neck, leaving the ends to lie on the sides of the jacket's zipper. Brock stands biting his lip, listening to himself. He doesn't like scarves. They are too useless and too dangerous. He looks up at the alpha with nothing to say. Jack’s lips twitch as if he’s trying to hold back a smile, he reaches for the ends of the scarf and tugs Brock in by them, kissing him deep and hungry in front of the entire team and the flight crew and the airfield staff, and Brock is so shocked that he opens his mouth, letting the alpha's tongue lick into his mouth. Jack touches his teeth on the inside, sucks his lower lip and pulls away, then lets go of the scarf, smoothes the ends and calmly heads for the plane.

Brock is an omega, a soldier, with no children, suppressed, scarred, with heavy muscles corresponding to his mad life. Brock knows the way slim well-groomed omegas look at him sometimes; omegas with soft silk skin, with slender arms and legs; someone like that stewardess packed in a narrow skirt that peeks out from under the edge of a wool coat, in boots and gloves and a scarf that match the color of her purse. This bitch dressed up to the nines looks at Jack as if she is ready to lie down right there, not on the floor, no, — on the pilot's seat, so that the dark leather would beautifully sets off her freshness and youth. Brock doesn't like to be looked at as if he doesn't have any rights for his alpha. Brock doesn't like when his alpha proclaims his rights for him. Brock does not like his crazy nature demanding confirmation of the alpha's love at every convenient and inconvenient occasion.

Brock absently strokes scarf’s tips wondering if he should tie it so it would not catch on something and no one would try to strangle him with it... Or leave them hanging free so that Jack could pull him in again without asking, without warning, and kiss him in front of everyone, so they would see that his scarf is perfect match for his alpha’s eyes, eyes of the manipulative asshole who always finds a way to get Brock to do what his alpha wants. What Jack wants.

*

Brock looks at Rogers’s smug face. Kid has not been seen around for a couple of weeks. There are rumors the supersoldier was sent on a secret mission since he disappeared without a word, and it seems Black Widow was with him, and someone heard that somewhere in southern Canada or in the north Turkey something rattled and exploded, and Stark himself denied his participation in the recent conflicts, but everyone and their mother know that the Avengers saved the world once again, and how great Captain America looks in his new suit while doing the rescue!

Brock chuckles and does not participate in the discussions, just yells at the recruits, driving them around the obstacle course. Rogers runs with everyone instead of hiding in the corner with punching bags, and he glows like a polished brass button and jumps easily on the walls as if his shoes have springs or even repulsors screwed by Stark himself. _Alphas._ Once get laid and the world is full of happiness, goodness, and rainbow unicorns for them.

Brock wonders who has been laid under Captain and how poor omega survived the supersoldier rut, and whether she was alone, and if not, how many of them it took for Rogers to stop looking like sad puppy. He finds Jack pulling himself up on a bar near the far wall and forgets about Captain America and the recruits and Hydra. When Jack lifts his body up on the bar his t-shirt lifts up revealing the teeth mark Brock left there the day before: just above the waistband of his sweatpants. Brock licks his lips remembering the taste of hot skin in his mouth. Jack camed as soon as Brock bit him and he got all of his seed, which he meticulously licked off Jack’s quivering stomach while clutching alpha’s throbbing knot in his hands. Jack glows just like Rogers. _Alphas._

*

Brock doesn't remember how they got to dry land. He realizes this must have happened at some point since he is sitting on something dry and firm, and Jack is lying with his head in his lap, and he is breathing weakly and shallow, and he is still out, and Mercier is sitting with her back against the trunk of a flimsy tree, and Westfahl is working on the receiver, and Converse is checking Anderson, and listening to Jack's breathing, and changing the bandage on Brock's hip, and Brock doesn't react and he doesn't remember when he was shot or when they put a bandage on him for the first time. He squeezes Jack's cold fingers in his hand and enjoys the fact that he no longer hears the chomping sound. He is sure that his shoulders are one solid bruise but it does not matter, Jack will massage them with oils and will let Brock to be on top, and will be petting his thighs while Brock sits on his knot, enjoying rigid bristles of Jack's pubic hair tingling his perineum, and they will laugh quietly, because Jack always makes him laugh…

Brock flinches at the slap which wasn't the first one judging by the heat in his cheeks. Mercier shakes her hand as Converse shines a flashlight into his eyes checking the reaction of his pupils. He just fell asleep, he was sure that he just fell asleep. He doesn't answer their questions, leaning in sharply to check Jack's breathing because he released his hand when he... fell asleep. Jack is breathing. His lashes barely flutter and his skin is not as white as it was and his heart is beating more evenly. Brock lets out a sigh of relief then straightens up and listens to what's going on around him. Converse shakes his head and moves away from him with an empty syringe. Brock doesn't remember getting the shot, doesn't feel any pain. It doesn't matter. Jack will be fine. If something hurts, Jack will kiss it to the better. It's always been that way. Brock finds the alpha's hand and squeezes it again.

He feels a movement to his right on the other side of him where Winter lays. Brock feels ashamed for a moment. He was ready to leave everyone for Jack and almost forgot about the existence of other injured teammates. The sky above the swamp turns gray showing there are only a few minutes left before the dawn and they managed to survive this night. Brock looks at the body that had been lying flat the day before and realizes Winter has turned on his side and is vomiting. Converse is already rushing to him with water. Brock looks carefully realizing the same thing will happen with Jack. He combs dark dirty strands on the alpha's head and watches Converse helps Winter to drink, and Westfahl sits down with a rifle at the tree in Mercier's place, as the second omega checks Anderson's forehead. They'll all get out. They will go home, and Brock will hold Jack's hair when he vomits, and help him turn around, and give him water, because all the alphas are helpless, so helpless, someone has to take care of them, someone always has to be there for them.

Brock leans over the alpha hiding him from the world with his own body and passes out missing Jack's fingers tremble in his hand and the beating of the helicopter's blades in the air.

*

They're a great couple. Perfect couple. An alpha who can barely turn around in bed without help demanding omega to lie next to him without moving, and said omega with a wounded thigh, who jumps around hospital room on crutches in an attempt to get his alpha a blanket, some water and chocolate, sedative so he does not get nervous from the fact that Brock is not able to lie down and not move. Well actually there is one way. Jack waits until Brock rests once again at his side with the magazine, and he gathers all his strength, rolls over and pins his hyperactive partner to the bed with all his weight. Brock gasps and laughs, laughs as he puts down the magazine, laughs as he writhes under Jack for a comfortable position, laughs as he runs his lips over his temple and lips and eyes that are closed with fatigue. Brock laughs and that's the only thing that matters.


End file.
